


The Winter Queen

by LadyMarieBee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU - Arya Never Went to King's Landing, F/M, History Repeats, Orys Baratheon/Argella Durrandon - Freeform, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMarieBee/pseuds/LadyMarieBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragon Queen certainly wasn't pleased by the Lady Stark. She demanded to have the girl come to King's Landing and be married into her ranks, to ensure a hold over all the kingdoms. And if she refused to come, she would send two options North: a husband or a battle. Gendry is both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello AO3!  
> The inspiration for this fic came from some research into the Baratheon line, where I read about Orys Barathon, his attempt to take Storm's End, and his eventual marriage to Argella Durrandon.  
> Here, Gendry follows in the footsteps of his ancestor (without slaying his wife's father).
> 
> (Ned doesn't send Gendry to the Wall; Arya doesn't go to King's Landing)

Tyrion was the only Hand of the King who had survived him – Arryn, Stark; they died for him without him knowing.

Tyrion was sneaky, though, and a Lannister, and he got Gendry away before Cersei could discover him. Kept him well hid and, when Daenerys landed, found a band of knights he could fight with, raising his name and fortune until Tyrion could present him to the Queen of Dragons.

Gendry is not as stupid as he appears, he knows that half the reason Daenerys legitimized him and treats him kindly is because the commoners (once his brothers and sisters) like him. They call his name when they see him riding his war horse and he always swings his warhammer for them, the same that took lives of Freys and Lannisters, and even his own Uncle Stannis Baratheon’s men.

Tyrion is good to him. Tyrion keeps him in check. When there was a movement for Gendry to claim the Stormlands as his seat (some even said with a crown), Tyrion was the first to know. He stamped them out and advised Daenerys to give the Stormlands to her nephew, marrying him to Shireen Baratheon to solidify the claim. Having a name, he taught Gendry, was both a blessing and a curse.

If Daenerys ever felt threatened by him, she would have his head in an instant.

And so he’s kind and generous and considerate, to appease the Queen, and he does everything that is asked of him.

It’s unfair to _her_ though (he might have considered it unfair to him, but as he’d been given so much, he’d repay Daenerys and Tyrion with his love and his life), it’s so unfair.

The Starks, Tyrion said, had been an honest, loyal family before the war. Dragged through blood and made to fight, just the one daughter remained, and Daenerys wondered about her. Wondered where her loyalties lay, if she could be left alive, or if she was as wild as people claimed.

When Daenerys sent a letter North – a demand it was, for Arya Stark to come to King’s Landing and bend the knee in a show of support for the Queen’s cause – it was the steward who responded. Very kind and very courteous he was, he said his lady was busy dealing with the Wall, and she could not come.

The Queen certainly wasn’t pleased by the Lady Stark. Half of her demand was to have the girl come and be married into her ranks, to ensure a hold over all the kingdoms. And if she refused to come, she would send two options North: a husband or a battle.

Gendry is both.

He’s keenly aware of his position as they plod on. If she persists, he will storm Winterfell with Daenerys’ army and take the seat. It’s his, the Queen has gifted it to him, but he can’t fathom putting death to the woman whose family has lorded there for ages. And so he’s decided, it’ll be a mission of peace.

When he told the Imp his decision to love Arya Stark, the short man laughed and wished him luck. Tyrion has only met the girl once or twice, so Gendry doesn’t listen when he says she’s as wild as her direwolf sigil. The Imp persists, saying how she’s always muddy, got sticks in her hair, carries a blade and wears britches.

“Never met a woman like her.” He said when they were in King’s Landing.

But that couldn’t be true, because the Queen was like her. Daenerys was wild and wanted things her way, but she had a peace about her despite, and she knew what was best. She knew how to achieve great things for her people, people who not long ago had been cheering for another ruler. She doesn’t mind, now that they cheer for her.

So Arya Stark isn’t one in Westeros. The Queen is like her, and what of Brienne of Tarth, who carries a blade and fights alongside knights?

Tyrion laughed more when Gendry used these women as a counter argument. “Yes, but would you like to marry either of them? They’re the type to cut off your bollocks the moment you displease them.”

“So I’ll make sure to please my wife.”

_Wife._ It’s an odd thing. Only a year ago he was shuttered up somewhere for his safety, uncertain of who he was and who he would become – rather, if he would _survive_. And now he’s the legitimized son of Robert Baratheon, sworn sword of the Dragon Queen, with a Lannister as an advisor, and a wife waiting in the North.

Besides the account of a few knights and lords who knew her father or fought with her brother, he doesn’t know much about her. They say she’s wild and cold, a veritable ice-wolf, but none of them ever knew her, never saw with their own eyes.

Among the company of knights he fights with, a chummy group he’d fallen in with after Daenerys landed, there is Harwin, who had worked in Winterfell. He has all nice things to say about the girl, but he reminds Gendry that he has not seen her in years, and nine and nineteen are too far apart to gage change.

Gendry often rides near Tyrion as they plod on North, asking questions about Arya Stark and her family.

“I was married to her sister, once.” Tyrion admits as they ride along the Green Fork, still weeks from Winterfell.

“Is she dead?”

“It is likely.”

“Are they all dead?”

Tyrion sighs. “You’d better not pester her with these questions – she’ll like no better than to have reason to run you through.”

Gendry waits as the Imp takes a drink from his ever-present wineskin, strapped on to his special-made saddle.

“Eddard Stark is dead for certain; my nephew saw to that. Catelyn and Robb Stark died together at an ill-fated wedding. For the lady, there were rumours of her body taking life again, but they must be unfounded for we have never seen her since. For the lord, the proclaimed King in the North-“ He stops a moment and sort of half glances about them. “They took his body and made it one with his wolf – and brought it here to show the Lady Arya. Paraded it around and swore to do unto her as they did to her brother.”

“And they blame her for being cold.” Anguy scoffs from Tyrion’s other side. “Harwin knew the Stark children. Says they were all kind and pleasing. Time’s done a job on the girl.”

Tyrion carries on as if uninterrupted. “They did kill her wolf, eventually, and very nearly had her. It was some last stand by my father’s men before Daenerys landed, and Arya hasn’t left her castle since. Some thought she _had_ died, before the queen made her proposal and she flared up to fight.”

“She had other brothers though.” He doesn’t know much about the houses of Westeros, but he knows there were several sons to the Starks.

“She had an older half-brother who went to the Wall – he was a good fellow, but the White Walkers don’t care, they’ll kill you anyhow. There were two younger boys, but they’ve been missing from Winterfell a long time, no one knows where they are.”

Gendry silently agrees with Anguy. She has all the reason to be wild, to be cold. He can’t imagine he’d be particularly cheery if everyone he loved (though they were few) was put to death, leaving him alone in the world.

They pick up a Northern boy in Moat Cailin as a guide. He’s shaggy, probably sixteen or seventeen, and he’s glad to have some furs and a horse, and a belly full of food at the end each day. He grew up in Winter Town and the land surrounding Winterfell, and he knows the area well enough to say where to put their camp to avoid the most of the wind and chills.

Moat Cailin is mostly ruins, but its great walls provide protection from the biting cold and Lady Arya has provided the castle with guards against beasts in the night. A sort of village has been raised there and around, for Northerners displaced by the war. Gendry cannot think ill of the lady, if she has done what she can in this brutal environment.

When they’re closing in on Winterfell, Castle Cerwyn crosses their path and they rest a night in the comfort of its halls, the Lord Cerwyn kind and pleasant. He apologises for not being able to give much, so Gendry gives him some of their provisions. They have several glass gardens, but they aren’t well kept, with so many of their workers busy with making arms and defending land.

Lord Cerwyn, upon hearing that they ride for Winterfell, ventures that he might ride with them and see the lady. He is in constant communication with her and her steward, and has been planning a visit. He loses his keen interest once their intention is announced, to wed the Stark girl or storm the castle, and politely declines, though he asks to be invited to the wedding (muttering, _if you can convince the lady_ ).

From Castle Cerwyn it’s only a half-day’s ride to Winterfell, though it is uphill and through thick snowbanks the entire way. But the crisp winter sun shines and Gendry can only take it as a good omen, the winter sun smiles for him.

They trudge through snow-filled valleys and across barren, windswept hill-tops, stopping often to chip the ice from the horses’ shoes and from the men’s beards. Gendry does not like to stop for too long, though, as he wants to arrive with enough time to send his envoy into Winterfell, and perhaps meet the lady herself.

His closest men – Anguy, Lem – laugh and say it’s as though he’s rushing to meet his long lost lady love. They remind him that though her sister was said to be pretty and pleasing, he should not expect the same of her.

As they switch back and forth up the side of a steep valley, he looks ahead to see grey and blue banners whipping in the distance, and men on horseback. They appear more graceful on the snow, and certainly warmer in their thick dark furs and oversized plate, accommodating enough for several layers of tunics and trousers.

He thinks nothing as he, at the head of the party, waves grandly for their leader, dressed dark leather and wearing a silver cloak with the Stark Direwolf sigil.

They only turn their horse.

“Scouts?” He calls to Tyrion as the band disappears over the ridge, racing away

“Might be the lady herself.” The Northern boy says, holding a hand up to blot out the sun. “Your lord says that she never leaves the castle – s’not true. She hunts, she’s got traps up all over the forest. She used to bring us a deer when she shot one or when her wolf ran one down.”

“So there is game?” He was under the impression that the North was a barren land, both in toil and hunt.

“For those who know how to catch it. And there’s more danger than starving, there’s wolves and shadowcats, and now wildlings and word of White Walkers.” The boy looks around, paranoid. “Most folk stay out of the woods.”

After they ride out of the last of the valleys it’s mostly uphill on ridges, crossing back and forth, and it’s not long before the first spires of the great castle come into sight. Then the wide domes of rooftops and ice covered walls are seen; the base of the castle is obstructed from view by rows of battlements, each taller than the last, so tall Gendry believes Anguy’s japes that giants built them. Winterfell is a fortress, built to withstand its environment and any attack on its interior.

Gendry hopes there will not be an attack. It appears impregnable, nothing like the flatland castles in the south, built with wooden-spike walls in the haste of war. Those castles were easily toppled and taken. Winterfell would not fall easy.

Winter Town, the sort of small, ramshackle village outside of the walls, is in the perfect position to avoid the most chilling winds; or so the Northern boy says. Gendry doesn’t want to leave the Kingsroad though, as it leads straight up to the castle, his final destination. The Northern boy shrugs and says it’s as good a spot as any.

“It’s where the Bolton bastard tented. It’s an easy walk to Winter Town and his soldiers came to the inn for a drink between fights.” The boy says, but Gendry doesn’t know any Northern history, and he doesn’t know which house is the Bolton house, or who this bastard is. He hopes Bolton didn’t leave a mark on the Lady for what a bastard does, considering his own beginnings.

They make camp, their tents stretching wide in either direction on the side of the Kingsroad. Fires are struck from kindling from the Wolfswood. The men are wary of the place and go in large groups, heavily armed. The Northern boy likes to chase around the soldiers’ heels and jape about the beasts hidden in the shadows.

Once Gendry’s tent is struck and his war table spread out with maps and plans, Tyrion counsels and their envoy is sent for. He’s a young man from further south than Gendry’s ever been, some pet of Daenerys, and Tyrion swears by his charming tongue.

He sends the man out with two Targaryen guards, and hopes for the best.

* * *

Arya is not a stupid girl. She knows that a marriage will solidify her status as the Lady of Winterfell – but she is stubborn and that the queen _demands_ it of her, not even to a man of her choosing, leaves her stinging. She will _not_ go to King’s Landing, going south had proved to be a disastrous venture for every Stark before her; she will _not_ bend the knee for this Queen Daenerys, who assumes that since Arya is of Westeros and since she is now ruler, that she has some say in these matters.

Her loyal steward, once the loyal steward of Lord Eddard Stark, Rodrik Cassel, sits down and writes a very nice letter that is not at all like the one Arya would have written. He is polite and pleasing, though he regrets to inform the queen that the Lady Arya is busy with matters at the Wall.

This is no lie. The Wall is crumbling, great cracks appearing in the face, and great chunks falling to reveal weaknesses. There is always a new report of wildlings coming in, and she has riding parties she travels with to meet them, if only to assure them that they can join the Northerners peacefully. She makes warning too though, if they overstep any boundaries, she will not hesitate to swing her blade.

Less frequent are the reports of White Walkers, though they still come. And when they come they come in droves, armies marching in blinding snowstorms, taking down whoever stands in their path. She has met a few in battle. A very few, because Rodrik refuses to let her be in danger, the last Stark – but enough that she has stories to tell, and fears in the night.

Her men mostly keep them at bay, but life suffers where the Walkers go, and it seems as though there are always bodies moving through Winterfell to be buried.

The South claimed peace – the War of the Five Kings was at an end, and the Queen Daenerys stormed Westeros with as little death and destruction as possible – they turned a blind eye on matters up the Neck.

But Daenerys does not take her rejection lightly. If the Lady cannot come to King’s Landing, then her chosen suitor will go to her, and there will be no debate over the matter. It will be him, Ser Gendry Baratheon – some bastard son of King Robert who survived the war, who was legitimized by Daenerys and now fights for her cause.

She cannot imagine that any man Daenerys chooses her will be able to stand the North for long. Better still, if he can’t she can send him away South and run Winterfell as she has become accustomed.

He will ride with a small party and be at Winterfell by the next moon, bringing provisions for the North as a sign of peace. Daenerys seems to think that there is no chance for dispute in this – Arya _will_ marry the man – but Arya thinks very differently about the situation.

She spends the month before the Ser’s arrival not preparing to receive the man and his party (as Rodrik suggests rather passive aggressively), but delving into the affairs of the North. She will show Queen Daenerys and Gendry Baratheon that there is no need of a Lord here. A Lady will do well enough, better even, she tells herself.

She plans the construction and gathers the materials for a new glass garden to be built at Deepwood Motte, and communicates with Lord Manderly, discussing the possibility of a fish-route being established up the coast from White harbour to Widow’s Watch, to Karhold, then to Skagos. She even rides to Last Hearth when there is only a week before the Ser’s arrival (Rodrik advises strongly against the venture) after a Walker report arrives by raven.

She returns to Winterfell battle weary, and Rodrik meets her in courtyard, worrying the ends of his fur cloak.

Ser Rodrik was an old man when he worked alongside her father and he must be very old now, though he still looks the same as she remembers him then. Silver white hair that goes from head to chin without distinction, a thick nose and a strong jaw, and some of the broadest shoulders she’s ever seen. He’s stooped now, like he hadn’t been when she was a child, and frailer, though he insists on carrying a longsword with him in case of attack. He’s dealt with her for nineteen years, and nothing she does should ever surprise him, though she is still capable of catching him off guard or raising a boil.

This marriage situation has been a test of his strength. He’s prepared to marry the Ser himself, if it pleases the queen, and he cannot fathom why Arya is so insistent on disregarding Daenerys’ order.

“We’ve had a raven from Lord Cerwyn. His rangers spotted a large van on its way up the Kingsroad.”

She looks out the gate, as if expecting them to be coming up even now to Winterfell.

_Perhaps_ , she thinks begrudgingly, _I should have had the stables stocked before I left. I can give their horses a ready welcome, at least._

“They should be here tomorrow, so long as they have the intelligence to wait the night at Cerwyn Castle. If they ride the night they’ll freeze.” Rodrik says, shaking his head, as if he expects no less from some blundering Southrons.

Arya smiles for her steward, they think alike. “Mayhap I’ll ride and watch them come in.”

“You are _not_ to go threatening the man. If he has come all this way to marry you, it’ll not do to put him out of the thought.”

She goes to the stables and asks the boys to bring in more hay, then retires to her chambers, where her war table is.

They’re the same chambers she had from her youth, shared with Sansa, and her sister’s things are all still there, though shoved away in boxes, drawers and corners. Rodrik said she could have the Lord’s room, her father’s room. But she has too many fond memories there, and she would be kept up late at night (at least, more than she already is).

Arya tinkers with the poorly carved horses and soldiers she and Bran and Rickon had made in their youth, just young and yet fighting a war. They made a figure for each of the Starks, but they’re all kept in a chest and she doesn’t look at them. She takes a soldier from the pile on King’s Landing and carves a small stag on his chest with the dagger in her sleeve.

Only after she has carefully arranged him and a handful of soldiers in rows at her castle walls, does she sleep.

She wakes to a clear sun. It’s the sunny days that are the coldest, she finds. She wraps up in several tunics before donning thick boiled leather and her sigil cloak, pulling the hood up and wrapping a woolen scarf around it to keep her ears warm.

Arya rides with a small party out a ways down the Kingsroad, stopping just before where the ridges are worst and the snow thickest. Down the valley in the still chilly air, she can hear them coming. Horses whinnying, snow crunching, armour clanking.

She had deluded herself that she might ride down and see what the queen had to offer, that she might even be cordial. But she saw their men. She saw their _army_.

She turns tail and flees.

She rides into the courtyard far ahead of her party, swinging down from her stallion and marching up the steps of the hall.

“Prepare for siege.” She tells Rodrik, who meets her there.

“By the raven the Queen wrote with some courtesy, they mean no harm.”

“They ride with thousands – wheelhouses and marching armed men, all with _her_ banners and _her_ colours.” She spits and waves away the maid who comes to remove her cloak. “Let them come.”

“They’ll send an envoy.” Rodrik insists.

They do. Only hours after Arya had seen them riding up, and from the castle walls watched them make camp, a man comes with two guards.

He’s some pretty boy, a charming smile, sun-touched skin and green eyes, who presents his name as some flowery thing. Indeed, he’s got flowers on his cloak and breastplate. He’s not the Tyrell boy though, he’s dead or dying somewhere, but he’s got as much pomp and prettiness about him that he seems to be trying to fill the shoes.

Her sister would have cooed, but Arya scowls as she watches him ride in.

She stands on the stone steps ready for battle in grey plate and boiled leather, and she knows he’s wondering who this woman is and why she does not wear a dress.

“Leave your guards.” She orders sternly before Rodrik kindly invites him into the hall.

The steward has convinced her to serve the envoy a supper, and they do it the three of them in the large, empty hall with some tense silences and awkward conversation. Arya lets him eat his last piece of venison and down his last gulp of wine before demanding his purpose.

He’s startled by the rude address, but:

“Queen Daenerys has sent you her suitor, Ser Gendry Baratheon – as you may already know.”

“I did hear. The bastard of the old king Robert Baratheon. It’s a wonder that she hasn’t taken off his head, considering her eagerness to injure anyone else connected to her exile.”

“Ser Gendry is truly respectable in every aspect, and exalted by the Queen. She has made him one of her highest ranking officers, and given him Winterfell as a seat, as his father’s lands were already gifted.” He doesn’t recognise his blunder, though Arya glares and slips the short blade from her sleeve. He’s looking away, to Rodrik, smiling. “Truly, an honest, honourable man. As good a husband as any disgraced Lady could ask for at times as these.”

Arya stands, lithe and careful as a shadow cat. She wonders how guarded the Ser Gendry’s tents are. A knife to the throat would suffice to stop this charade, she’d make it quick and clean – though she can’t promise on painless.

“He sounds perfectly respectable.” Rodrik is writing a letter, though his eyes are on Arya. She wonders if he’s already responding with an affirmative to the Ser’s request. “My Lady, does he not?”

“Respectable.” She spits. “Because that’s what the North needs. Disgraced, did you call me? Are those your Queen’s words? Your Ser’s? Your _own_?”

The envoy smiles most charmingly. “My Lady, you must know your situation.”

“Yes. Though there is a Lady Queen, we could not have a Lady running Winterfell.” She returns his smile and he seems to understand that she is mocking him. His eyes narrow and his mouth goes flat. She makes to walk past him.

“Lady Arya.” He grabs her wrist tight. “It is marriage or death.”

She spins on him quick, twisting her wrist and grabbing his, slamming it down on the table. Her blade tears through skin and crunches through bone while the man screams and Rodrik shouts. The envoy kneels out of his seat once his hand has been severed from his arm, holding the limb in crying shock.

“Arya Stark.” Rodrik chastises her loud and angry, like her Septa used to. “You disobey the guest right.”

“Fuck the guest right.” She mutters, turning to the sobbing envoy and hovering her blade over him. “Didn’t do my brother much good.”

“You will not kill that man. Not here, in this hall.”

She persists. “With Luwin slain, a wound like that won’t heal.”

The envoy wails and clutches his stub as Arya balances her blade against his neck.

“Send him back to his soldiers. They’ll have a Maester among them who can give him something for the pain.” Rodrik advises.

Arya turns to the table and Rodrik jumps away; though furious he’s still frightened. She takes up his letter, scratching out whatever he’s written with such force that the quill tip breaks. The ink pot is overturned on the table and the ink is mixing with the envoy’s blood and spilt wine from supper. She scratches out her reply with the mess and overturns Rodrik’s writing box, emptying the scrolls and quills on the floor, making space for the severed hand. Arya slams it shut, then pins the letter to the top of it with her bloody dagger.

She kneels beside the envoy and tears his flowery cloak, wrapping the silken fabric around his wound, tight.

“You tell your Ser.” She spits. “You tell him it hurt like hell itself.”

He stumbles to his feet, blubbering. Arya takes the box under her arm and escorts the envoy out, watching him onto his horse. The guards with him, wearing black plate with red dragons, stare.

“A gift for Ser Gendry.” She says, passing the box off to one of them with a smile that is all sharp teeth.

* * *

_~~Gracious Ser,~~ _

_~~The Lady Arya, after some careful reconsideration, is very much pleased by Queen Daenerys’ offer, and will~~ _

_Men and armies enough have come for my hand, my title, my head. Here, Ser Gendry Baratheon, is the only hand you’ll get off me. You’re welcome to attempt the others by force, though listen to your envoy when he says my blade is cold and sharp. Winter is coming, Baratheon. We’ll see if your fury can withstand it._

Tyrion laughs when he reads the letter, and has to explain all her japes to Gendry.

The envoy is terribly displeased (and in serious pain) when he rides into the camp, every soldier’s eye trained on his bloody stump. He sobs as he strides up to Gendry, screaming obscenities.

“If you marry that bitch, it’s on you. The Queen doesn’t know what she’s getting you into.” He says when he’s calmed a bit. The guard hands Gendry the box, letter and knife, and the envoy stares. “And she said – she wants you to know – it hurt like hell itself.”

Gendry cracks open the box and spots the severed hand, immediately disgusted (and dare he say it, intrigued). He passes it off to Tyrion, who reads the letter, the meaning charming him.

“I should not have expected less of her.” He says once they are in Gendry’s tent, the envoy’s hand taken away to the maester traveling with them. “How do you want to proceed? She invites you to fight.”

“The men are itching for a battle, Gen.” Anguy hints. “And if she’s willing…”

He shakes his head, mind already made up to be peaceful. “We’ll ride out in the morn. I want to see this woman for myself.”

* * *

They don’t come that night, but Arya is anxious. She watches their camp glow from the outer wall, listening for soldiers creeping in the snow and bushes.

When it becomes clear that there will not be an attack, Arya leaves her guards pacing on the wall and goes to her rooms for a sleepless night. When there’s sun glinting off the snow in the courtyard, she dresses in her best armour. Ice blue painted steel with snarling direwolves, silver fur cloak, twin swords and a bow. She braids her hair back tight and slips on the crown Mikken had made her, a slim band of silver for her brow. Nothing like the gaudy gold rose crown her sister had always dreamed of.

She goes to the wall again and waits, assembling her guard when she sees the Southron camp stirring. Rodrik comes up eventually and they stand together in sullen silence, he still angry with her for the envoy situation and the destruction of his writing box, and she for his eager pressing towards this union.

Finally a band of twenty armed men are spotted riding out of camp, up the sloping path to Winterfell. The portcullis is down and the doors barred, and they stop below her position on the wall in rows. The shortest amongst them, dressed in mail that falls to his toes and a helm with Targaryen plumage, looks up to her.

“Lady Arya Stark. How you’ve grown.”

“Lord Tyrion.” She doesn’t let her surprise show, a mocking lilt taking over her voice instead. “I had no knowledge of you being amongst the party. Did you enjoy your previous stay in the North so much that you could not remain away?”

“My Lady, I was much impressed upon by Winterfell in my travels.” He calls in return, leaning all the way back in his saddle to see her. “But there are so few men in King’s Landing who know the area, and Queen Daenerys needed a guide, so my visit is not all pleasure.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve kept your head – though you Lannisters are all slippery. I thought that Daenerys was made of tougher stuff, but her armour has a chink if you’ve made your way into it.”

“You were wild as a youth, Arya Stark. You wound as a woman.” Though he does not seem wounded, in fact he seems flattered. “I have made marks to redeem myself. I have given up much. As we must all, you are discovering.”

“Ah. Yes. And which one of your fellows is my suitor?”

Tyrion gestures beside him and it’s the big, broad fellow with the bull’s head helm who is to be her husband. He’s armed with a warhammer and when he removes his helm, she sees just how much of a Baratheon he is. Strong jaw and dark hair, handsome like people claimed Robert used to be, though she had only seen him fat and she could not contest to that.

“Milady.” He’s got the tongue of a lowborn and he’s awkward as he stares up at her, obviously unused to addressing a Lady or being addressed himself at all. “I understand that you’ve made a decision to go against the Queen’s will, but I plead you change your mind.”

“Yes, your message was very witty – and very clear.” Tyrion chimes. “Our envoy claims you have qualms with Ser Gendry’s lineage, both as a bastard and as a Baratheon. That sounded odd in my ears, as I recall your brother Jon Snow was a bastard-“

Arya takes off her back her bow and pulls a short arrow from the leather strap on her thigh. She rolls it around her fingers before placing it against the string.

“And are you not the splitting image of Lyanna Stark? It has been years since your two families first desired a union. We’ve seen Lyanna and Robert, Sansa and Joffrey, and now-“

She throws up her bow arm and pulls before he dares utter her name. The arrow cuts through the feathers out the top of his helm – black and red – and everyone around him starts, drawing arms. Rodrik is squealing, affronted by her attitude.

“Let’s not forget, Imp, how those unions turned out for the women involved.” She calls down over the sound of Ser Gendry’s archers’ strings.

“Milady.” Ser Gendry persists, waving down his men. They stare and mutter and all keep their weapons out.

She, in turn, drops her bow and draws her twin blades, forged in Winterfell and laced with frost from a close encounter with a White Walker. She swings them so that he can see. Both sides are tense as the Ser steps out of line from Tyrion and his command, trotting under her walls.

“I mean you no harm.” He persists.

“And yet you’ve brought an army.”

“They are Queen Daenerys’. She does not wish you dead, indeed, she’d like to see you at her side. These men are not to fight you – unless you insist on this battle. In which you can be certain many Northern men will die.”

“Winterfell is a stronghold. There’s ice in the walls and every access is frosted from the black cold. Have your brought enough food, Ser? You will have to starve us out.”

“The queen has dragons.” He reminds her, ever calm.

“The North won’t burn like the rest of Westeros.” She calls, sharp and clear.

Every guard is bristling, every archer trained on her. But they won’t attack until their leader gives his order, and Arya considers him quite the Southron softskin. He’ll hear her, then he’ll think some. Stubborn, he’s shown himself, he’s decided to be cordial. _He won’t fight._

“The North won’t burn. Let the Queen’s dragons come – let them freeze. Let your soldiers march – let them be struck down by black frost.” She holds out her arms, twin blades shining in the winter sun. “We have White Walkers and wildlings coming over the Wall. _We’re_ safe inside with the weapons and skill to fight them.”

Rodrik splutters behind her, but she pays him no mind. She speaks in half-truths.

“Have you ever seen a White Walker, Ser?” Arya persists. “Tall and fast, skilled enough that you don’t see them until their blades are coming down at you. And their blades, sharp and cold – they _shatter_ skin.”

“Have you? Have you seen a White Walker? Killed one?” Ser Gendry Baratheon sounds in awe, but she can’t tell as the wind picks up his words into the air. The wind makes them hard and accusing.

“Been close enough to kiss, Ser.” Her white chapped lips peel back over sharp teeth and she spits. “Might I take one for a husband, be the bloody Queen of the North with my Other King. It’s a better offer to me than any _your_ Queen could make.”

“Might I could change your mind.” He returns.

The wind leaps up with her as she bounds to stand on the very precipice overlooking the Ser and his men. Rodrik is still begging her to reconsider, but the snow swirls and blots him out, and all Arya can hear is her own voice, ever sharp, ever clear.

“As the Winter Queen, Queen of the North, I reject your offer, Ser. Tell Daenerys Targaryen that she will have to make do with only six kingdoms to her name. Leave, _now_ , or all the North has to offer will run you down and make you wish you’d never left your warm Southron sun.”

She doesn’t wait to see him turn tail – she already knows he will. Instead, she spins and steps down off the wall, gesturing for Rodrik to follow her into the castle.

“They can try to make war.” She spits. “We’ll see how long they last. Winter is coming.”

Rodrik is silent behind her, but plods along accordingly.

“Tell the men to ice the portcullis and all the exterior doors. There cannot be any entrance point left open to them.” She orders the three guards following Rodrik before kicking into her war room.

She paces along the table, counting in her head how many men should could as her lords to send. Not many, what with most of them monitoring the Wall. She had rearranged the pieces last night, adding rows and rows and rows of men to Ser Gendry’s side.

“Arya Stark.” Rodrik berates. “You go out there and you accept that man as your husband.”

“Fuck him. Fuck him and all his army. So… presumptuous!” She pulls her braid and growls. “Like he can walk in here and take what my family has had for generations!”

“These are new times, Arya. Changed times. Your house seat has been threatened before, your ancestors bent the knee to Aegon the conqueror. Why do you not bend now?”

“Because it is mine and my brothers’ right. We have lived through so much and lost even more – the Queen cannot take this away from me.” She stamps her foot like a petulant child and snarls. “Wait and watch. We will _not_ be starved out. It is true, we have very little – but we are of the North, we are made of harsher stuff. We will survive.”

“There is nothing left, Arya!” Rodrik explodes. “The men and women and children beg for food, find none, and then beg for death. We were all clutching onto very thin threads, hoping that some sort of deal might be struck where the North might _survive_ , but you’re insistent on killing us all!”

“We have what we are – a strong, hardy people. We will find food. We will find salvation. We don’t need it presented to us by some false lord or some foul queen.” She goes to the door, sick of this spiel. Beyond, she finds the three armed guards.

She turns on Rodrik as they grab her arms and make her still.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We don’t have nothing.” He sighs. “We have you. And as you refuse to make the necessary moves to ensure our survival – I must in your stead.”

“How dare you.” She glares and fights, but two guards hold her strong and the third strips her of her cloak and weapons, even the one in her boot.

“You will go to Ser Gendry Baratheon, escorted by these guards and my letter of peace–“

“This is treason, revolt – as my father’s loyal steward, as _my_ loyal steward-“ She runs over him, but he interrupts her the same, and makes her dumb silent with his words.

“You will go with nothing, not even your name or sigil. And you will go grateful that they want you married, and not dead.”

And with that the guards carry on their orders, stripping her of everything she’s ever known.

* * *

They ride down in silence, but when they reach camp the soldiers are all grinning. Eager to fight, they are, after traveling so far for it.

“We’ll wait.” Gendry tells his commanders. “I’ll not risk what can be a treaty of peace.”

“You mean to starve them out, then?” Tyrion asks as they dismount and enter Gendry’s tent. The war table is set up there and Anguy is already toying with one of the carved wooden dragons, placing it in their ranks, planning fiery siege.

“She’ll change her mind. She’s stubborn, but she’ll change her mind.”

“It benefits us all to see that our handsome Baratheon cannot charm every woman he lays eye on.” Anguy jests.

“Aye, and just the one he wants.” Tyrion joins the archer’s side, both of them laughing at Gendry’s frustration.

“She didn’t even blink when she saw his face – she doesn’t care that he’s strong and pretty. Could she really take a White Walker for a husband? Could you fuck an Other?”

“She’s been listening to her nan’s tales, obviously.”

“She’s likely just frightened.” Gendry reasons over their teasing speculations. He’d be frightened in her position.

The Northern boy has followed them in and he snorts derisively. “She’s stupid.”

Tyrion eyes him over his goblet and Gendry glares. Despite her stubbornness, neither of them think so ill of her.

“People always said her sister was stupid, the one who was supposed to marry the false king. And she was. But Arya Stark is stupid too. Thought she could be a soldier or something – she’s a fucking girl.” He snorts again. “When the Queen landed, the Stark girl thought her words meant something to us Northerners just cause her father was Lord. But he’s dead, and she’s nothing compared to dragons.”

“So you don’t care about her?” Gendry is astounded. “She’s your Lady.”

“Nah. Can’t say anyone in that castle cares that much for her either. Probably holed up, waiting for a moment to escape.”

“You said she brought you game, she cared for you.”

“Aye, she fed us when she could. But a lady with her own army, commanding lords and knights – it’s a queer thing.”

“And what is Queen Daenerys?”

The boy shrugs. “I ain’t never seen the Queen. But she’s different, she’s got dragons and power with her. The Stark lady’s kept a few Walkers from my doorstep, but she doesn’t have much.”

Tyrion puts down his glass and waddles over to where Gendry is stood. The Baratheon has his hand on his warhammer.

“Come,” The Imp waves at the Northern boy. “I’ll pay you like I promised, then you can get a drink down at Winter Town.”

The boy looks eager at the thought and follows Tyrion out the tent flap, leaving a fuming Gendry and a chuckling Anguy. The archer, who prides himself on being very open with his commander, doesn’t hold his tongue for long.

“Look at you. You haven’t even met her proper and you’re already up in arms to fight for her honour.” He claps Gendry on the shoulder while the man removes his weapon and armour.

“How can he speak so ill of her?” Gendry wonders after a moment.

“He’s a subject. I never thought well of Aerys Targaryen when he was on the throne, or Joffrey, the little shit. Same goes up here. Subjects don’t need to like their rulers.”

“So they’ll talk about me, the way that boy talks about her?”

“You have the luck of being a man, Gen. They’ll talk, but I think they won’t hate.” Anguy grins, then turns back to the war table as Gendry strips to change his tunic and britches, donning a cloak instead of armour.

They spend a little time rearranging the carved wooden horses, discussing what lies beyond Winterfell, and the possibility of White Walkers. The Northern boy said the lady kept them back, and the lady herself spoke of meeting them. Anguy admits his fear that they are more than legend and both men avoid placing their horse pieces near the Wall. Anguy pretends he’ll take White Harbour, placing his piece on the city, while Gendry remains in Winterfell with Daenerys’ dragon, and a tiny wolf’s head.

There are murmurs outside, though, louder than the howling wind, and men are moving. Anguy stands and goes out to check for Gendry.

“Gen,“ Anguy comes running back. “There’s four horses. They’ve sent four horses: three guards and one very cold woman.”

Gendry exits his tent just as the whistles and catcalls are starting.

He’s astounded at such treatment of a lady. He doesn’t for a moment suspect a trap. She’s being bounced in the saddle, stripped down to pink nipples and brown curls, arms forced and locked behind her in cuffs. Her horse, even, bares no markings, no flags or sigil. She is all skin, reduced to her simple status as a tradable woman.

Close enough to see her face proper, he likes her hard chin and thin nose, but she doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t look at anyone, eyes locked forwards, unseeing. Her face is slate, hard metal, completely stone dead.

Gendry is rooted to the spot as they ride up to his tent, the three guards wearing their grey and blue Winterfell plate but entirely unfeeling for the Lady Stark. They stop to jeers.

A soldier (Gendry remembers the face, he’ll receive a punishment from his Ser soon enough) has the gall to go up to her, put a hand high on her thigh and joke about her situation.

“The Ice Queen come to keep us warm tonight? I won’t knock it, she _feels_ like a woman.”

She suddenly jerks up a knee, catching him under his jaw, then kicks out sharply and sends the man sprawling. He chokes and spits blood and everyone is drawing a weapon – and she has slipped back into her state of apparent unawares, her gaze landing somewhere beyond their camp, her face betraying no hint of her thought.

More men are approaching her now, with weapons drawn, and not nearly as crudely jovial as the man before them.

Gendry barks an order – some garbled angry sound, hardly a real command – and they stand down as he sweeps across the snow to her horse.

Her guards remain astride, one afore and two behind, and the man leading offers Gendry a letter as he passes. Anguy takes it in his stead, Gendry altogether focused on the lady. He unhooks his cloak and throws it up over her shoulders, clasping it to covering her modesty. Only then does she take her gaze from that far off place, running him through with two steel grey eyes.

She jerks her knee up – he thought at first she meant to kick him too – and quickly slides off the horse with no great difficulty, despite her chains. She doesn’t pay any mind to the guards or the soldiers, and marches her way through the silent crowd to Gendry’s tent.

“You’ve got her now.” The first guard speaks as he wheels his horse around. “If she runs, s’not our fault.”

She hasn’t run, she’s stood beside the war table, very quiet and very still. She’s managed to work her cuffed arms around herself so they’re before her, and she’s clutching his cloak around her by the Baratheon stag clasps and chain. Not _around_ her, Gendry realises with a start as he takes small steps into the tent. She’s got the metal chain pressed up against her white throat very tight, slowly choking herself where she stands. By the steadiness of her hands, it’s done purposefully.

He flings himself at her, grabbing wildly. He gets a hand around hers and manages to pry her small fingers off the metal, then breaks the clasps with a strong jerk. She gasps and collapses against the table as he throws the chain away in a corner, then comes at her.

“How dare you.” He’s unaccountably angry. “You’d take your life?”

“It’s not much worth living.” She spits back through choked gasps, leaning heavily on her right side, pressed up against the table. Without the clasps his cloak slides down her arm and exposes her white breast, and Gendry hurries to pull it back up, lest someone walk in.

They’ve seen her all anyways.

He holds the folds closed and hauls her to her feet, still coursing with anger. She’s stiff under his touch and he settles her in a chair beside his war table before going over to his trunk.

“I’ll find you something better.”

“Don’t bother.” She replies, voice strong and bitter. “I don’t want your courtesy.”

“Come closer to the fire then.” He goes to her side and drags her by the chair legs when she refuses to move. She’s at least holding the cloak closed herself now.

He takes her free hand and pulls it out as far as it will go cuffed, putting it inches from the flame. He’s startled to find that she isn’t solid like ice, she’s soft and warm, so unlike the Ice Queen that people have made her out to be. She’s also quick and fluid, and she snatches back her hand almost instantly.

“Hot wine?” He says almost pleadingly. “You’ll catch a chill.”

She barks a laugh, as if she could never catch a chill, but doesn’t refuse. He keeps an eye on her all the way to the door, then only spares a glance for Anguy.

“Get the cook to heat some wine, and some soup, or whatever he’s got.”

“I’ve got the guard’s letter.” Anguy stops him from re-entering the tent by shooting out a hand. He presents the letter, but his eyes are on the open flap, and the girl by the fire. “D’you want Tyrion?”

Gendry nods quick, takes the letter, and speeds back to the girl’s side. She’s not trying to burn herself, and she hasn’t found a knife yet. All appears well.

She spies the letter but says nothing.

He fumbles with the seal under her gaze, and is stuck on the first line. Reading is not a strong suit for him, especially not reading under pressure. He places it on the table instead, and waits for the Imp.

There’s a key with it, but she looks away when it slips out of the letter into his hand. It’s left to his discretion to decide whether she ought to be released.

“Why are you here?” He asks, turning the little iron key over in his hand.

“Does the letter not say?” She scoffs.

“Might be I want to hear it from you.”

“I am bid to come marry you. Forced, in fact, with nothing left to my name.” She pierces him with a cold look. “Not even my name – I come as Arya. Winterfell is no longer mine. They give themselves to you, with me as a prize. You are fit to do what you wish with me, be it marriage, or something worse now that I’ve refused your offer.”

He is stunned silent at her. Her words and her character amaze him. That she can remain so strong in light of her situation is a credit to her.

Tyrion times his entrance with their silence, and Gendry wonders how long he’s been waiting.

Lady Arya stands and stares and he goes over to her with no maliciousness or animosity to kiss her hand.

“Why is she still in chains?” Tyrion asks, turning on Gendry. “Even if we haven’t the key, I’m sure you know a trick or two from your blacksmith days.”

Gendry presents the key, grateful not to make the decision. He goes over slowly and takes her wrist in his hand – she is thin like a blade – as he undoes the cuffs. She is careful when she moves free, not stepping too fast or too far, but obviously reveling in the fact that they have unchained her. Gendry moves her seat back to the war table and sweeps the carved pieces into their tin, lest she spot the dragon atop Winterfell.

Arya sits, sweeping the cloak around her in a very dignified way as she does so. He has no doubts that she was raised highborn, despite her wildness. With his cloak so large that it eats her up and her hair tied tight in a braid, she looks like a child who dreams of being regal in her father’s cloak. They’ve taken the silver crown that shone on her brow.

She doesn’t look at him, eyes all for the Imp, who is reading the letter. Tyrion looks to Gendry and gestures him to come, and he tries to read it over the man’s shoulder as they speak in whispers.

“Her steward writes that they’ve taken her title and fortune away, and it will be returned to her upon your marriage. She will be Lady Stark, or rather, Lady Baratheon, in name and power only _after_ you marry her – should you wish it.” Tyrion glances up at him. “Indeed, Cassel says you needn’t marry her, after her recent actions.”

“That’s cruel.” Gendry says, scowling. He glances at Arya, wondering if she’s listening, but she’s staring at the tent flap and the wind is whistling.

“He does say, though, this coup is nothing against the lady, only that she can be a handful. A marriage would be highly advantageous for both parties, and Cassel says that the Northerners would stand behind you as Lord if you took a Northern bride.” Tyrion tuts and folds the letter.

Arya turns as Gendry comes around the table to her, slipping into the seat beside her. If she were not so wrapped around herself, he would take a hand and comfort her – he means her no harm.

“May I read it?” She asks, a small hand held out between the fur folds of the cloak. Tyrion passes it to her and she clutches it close as she reads. Her face doesn’t change, it never appears to change, but the air seems to go from frigid and angry to still and calm.

“So, they’ve taken your title.” Tyrion says after she smoothes the paper and places it on the table.

“I cannot be mad at him, Rodrik’s done his duty to the North. Many lives will be saved.”

“Then why did you ever refuse in the first place?” Gendry wonders, terribly confused by this woman.

“Because Winterfell is _mine._ ” She snaps, glaring. “Winterfell is for a Stark – it has been for generations. It’s not something to be given. Daenerys and all her Southron court don’t understand. _You_ don’t understand.”

He tries. “Do you want the power?”

“What good is power? It didn’t keep anyone from dying, and it’s not bringing anyone back from the dead.”

“Indeed, power has caused more loss in the Five Kings War than anything.” Tyrion agrees, leaning forward on an elbow to look at her closer.

“Why do you stare, Lannister?” She demands.

“I wondered if you looked like me. I feel wild at times. I was a rascal before, but I’m worse now.” He squints. “They say you’re wild, but you look rather pretty.”

“I’m not wild. I’m fierce.” She bars her teeth. “Call me pretty, Imp, and I’ll give you a better scar than that.”

She runs her fingers, clenched like claws, over her face.

“Fierce.” Tyrion repeats. He’s smiling. “And cold. A winter wolf, for sure.”

“I’m cold because I need to be. Soft and caring got my sister killed, didn’t it?”

“She was fierce too, in the end. You have more of a knack for it, I think. But it does not explain why you refused to receive us.”

“I’ve had armies at my gates before yours. If I’d been the ladies my mother and sister were, I’d be dead. Not wild. Not fierce. Not pretty. Dead.” She snarls. “I had your father’s army come to dispose of me. I had the Bolton bastard with his usurper hordes come to marry me. I do not like _armies_.”

“Did you ride down to see us?” Gendry puts in. “Were you in the party of riders with the Stark banners?”

“Daenerys claimed to mean well. I wanted to see for myself. I thought if you were a small band, I might allow you into the hall, let your horses rest in the stables. I thought I might _try_.” She says it soft, like it’s a secret. “But you came with an army, and your envoy was rude-”

“You were rude to our envoy.” Tyrion says pointedly, gesturing to the sideboard, where the box containing her letter and knife rests.

She stares a long while before going over to it. She doesn’t open the box, just traces the carving, Gendry’s cloak following her like a train.

“I made a decision. And I stood by it.” She finishes, turning to the men with a strong, set look.

The tent flap moves, though, and she visibly startles, her strong look falling to worry. Gendry stands to address the intruder, but it’s just the cook.

Hot Pie comes in with a tray; bowls of soup and some of the better bread, a little cheese and two pitchers of hot wine with cups. He fumbles a little under the gaze of Gendry, Arya and Tyrion, but regains his footing and places the tray on the table with a smile.

“Thank you.” Gendry says in a dismissive tone, but Hot Pie insists on setting a place for the lady; a bowl, a cup, a fork and a spoon – but no knife. He’s glad for that forethought.

Arya even smiles a little at the cook, but Gendry imagines it’s a trick of the light. When she sees the men gawking through the open tent flap at her she stiffens, taking her fork in a threatening way.

Hot Pie closes the flap as he leaves and she softens a little, a very little.

Tyrion pours himself a glass of wine first, drinks, then offers to the lady. She accepts, downing the drink as soon as it’s settled in her cup. It’s hot, so it must burn all the way down, but she shows no illness and Gendry wonders if she feels anything at all.

“So you’re a Baratheon now?” Arya asks, surprising him. “What were you before?”

“Waters, milady.”

“Funny.” She says, watching him while pouring a second glass of wine. “How they can give a name and title, then take it all away on a whim. Winterfell was not Daenerys’ to give, yet your envoy told me you are already Lord of the castle and lands. I can assume then that our marriage is only to solidify your claim – but you would have taken it without my hand.”

“The Stormlands were given to the Queen’s own family.” Tyrion interjects, speaking so that Gendry doesn’t have to. “She thought to make him a gift of a land and a wife at the same time, and you remained a liability. She did not expect your response to be so… volatile.”

Arya laughs sharply through a scowl, catching both men off guard. “Volatile. I think she doesn’t understand how much a title and land go hand in hand, how they are inseparable. Daenerys has been gone too long, never had a seat to go along with her crown. Never had a land-stuck people to govern. Her Dothraki move daily. The Starks have not moved in eight thousand years.”

She swirls her wine and stares at the red. They sit in silence a moment, Tyrion looking at her pityingly, Gendry wondering if she’d let him touch her. He does, in the end, pushing away the clump of hair that has pulled out of her braid with his knuckles, brushing her snow white cheek. She blinks away from her drink and catching him with her hard grey eyes.

“I think you, Baratheon, do not know how a name carries more than its current owner’s meaning. Stark doesn’t mean Arya, Stark means the North. But what was the point of baring the Stark name all these years, only to be given a new one when I married?” She says, swirling her drink again. “Better I be Arya from birth, and whatever my husband wants after marriage.”

She’s full of these strange, sharp questions. Questions he can’t answer, questions that make Tyrion chuckle. The Imp appears to be understanding her far more than Gendry is.

“And you think I have power here – _power._ They sent me out naked and chained without my name – where is the power, Ser?”

By the third glass:

“Why do you think I’m here?” She stands and throws out an arm, spilling a little as she gestures around them. “The North I mean, Winterfell.”

“It is your house seat.” Gendry answers, bewildered.

“Southron houses abandon their seats often enough.” Arya sits and he reaches out to ensure that the cloak is held tight enough shut. “I could have gone with my brothers. I could have gone anywhere.”

Gendry looks to Tyrion. The other man appears deep in thought.

“Your father said something – something akin to house words. Something about the Starks and Winterfell.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She says, very soft, very sweet. “I could have gone to King’s Landing, but I didn’t want to. Sansa did because she wanted to be queen but I had no part in that. And I couldn’t go to the Wall with Jon – so I stayed. There were five of us in Winterfell. Then mother left to go after father, and Robb left for war – got themselves killed – and there were three of us. But Bran was in danger, and Rickon was so young. So I sent them away. North. And I told them not to come back.”

She doesn’t cry, she isn’t like that Gendry realises, but her hands shake her glass and she has to place it on the table.

“Then there was one. And I won’t leave, for there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She smiles and Gendry wants to touch it, just to see if it’s really there. It looks so out of place and so forced.

“You would face White Walkers, the queen’s armies, her dragons – only so that your father’s words will be filled.” Tyrion laughs, despite the heavy sentiment she expresses. “You are a woman of some character, that much must be said.”

Gendry is only more bewildered. How Tyrion can jest is beyond him, Gendry wants to cry for her. She is the last of her kind, the last of the Stark wolves. And her own people would take that away from her by casting her out and forcing her to marry him.

“Would that I were a man.” She jests back. “Different things would be said. I may be a treasonous woman, but I am a marketable woman. A treasonous man is a dead man.”

“And yet, that’s what you want.” Gendry interjects. He’s the only one who cannot laugh.

She looks at him, her gaze still piercing, though she smiles. “A man can hold a title, command an army. A woman has not the same leisure.”

Tyrion holds out his cup and the two of them toast to it.

Arya’s laughing as she pours yet another glass of wine, completely concentrated on not spilling a drop, and the cloak folds open to him, exposing breast, rib, hip and thigh. Tyrion is again reading the letter, and Gendry is given a moment entirely for himself to enjoy her form.

She’s mostly made of muscle from her hunting and fighting, but even if she was more a lady she still would be small. Her smallness is tasteful, the small curve of her breast, the small width of her hip; her smallness gives her a fragile look, undressed she looks like a child’s stone doll.

He fumbles with his mouth. She can make him silent with a look, and make him want to cry with another. He’s met girls before, slept with a few by the push of his company who wondered that a handsome man his age hadn’t fucked before, and he hadn’t thought the Southron women insipid – until now. He doesn’t think this woman could ever bore him. He thinks Arya could make him shake.

He told himself he’d love her, when he left King’s Landing. He told everyone he’d love her. He said he’d love her, because he worried he wouldn’t. He worried it’d be the marriage every Lord and Lady in the south had, and he wanted something else. But he could certainly love this woman – this stubborn, strong, wild, tragic woman.

“Marry me?”

The drink isn’t really affecting her. She perhaps wishes it were, but when he asks his question, she snaps a sober look to him.

“You still want to marry me?” She asks, cold, but seeming thrown by the idea.

“Yes.” He had decided a long time ago, and meeting her has only strengthened his cause.

Her gaze doesn’t soften, so much as it appears to become decided. She fixes her grey eyes on him and drops the cloak, stepping between his legs very quickly and presses her mouth firmly against his.

Though startled by her suddenness, his desire still flares. He tightens his grip on the table and on his thigh, fighting to keep from smothering her naked body in his arms. Arya holds him strong by the jaw with her small hands, keeping him from turning away, not that he would dare. He battles for some sort of dominance in the kiss after his surprise, but she has all the upperhand and he falls to her will after only a moment.

Tyrion is laughing. Gendry has forgotten about him.

Arya turns to the Imp, and shocks them both by smirking, completely undeterred by his perverted gaze. They have _all_ seen her, Gendry is reminded with some anger, and he stands to cover her naked body with his, reaching around to her seat to cloak her again.

“I think you will always be left wondering.” Tyrion chuckles. “Lady Arya Stark is nothing like any other wife in Westeros. She will keep you on your toes.”

Gendry fumbles with the cloak as the light and smile go out of the woman in his arms. She makes no effort to pull the cloak around her now. As fast as she had become animated, she becomes still and unfocused again.

“So I will be Arya Baratheon?” She asks dully. “Ours is the fury?” She clicks her tongue.

She grabs at the cloak, wrenching it from his fingers, and stalks over to the fire to stoke it. Tyrion glances at Gendry and the younger man follows her. She’s barefoot on the reed mat floor and he goes to his trunk to fetch a pair of riding boots for her. Arya stares when he presents them to her, but takes them and slips her small feet into them. They’re several sizes too big, but there’s wool and leather in them and they’ll keep her warm.

“I…” Gendry has no idea what to say as he helps her into them, thick fingers circling her thin ankles, though he has an idea of what will please her. “I am not yet used to the name. It would not suit me ill to change again.”

Tyrion perks at the table while Arya continues to stare. Gendry stands and licks his lips, terribly nervous.

“Do you mean to forsake the Baratheon name?” The Imp asks loud, wondering. “Only you and your cousin Shireen remain with the title and sigil, and she is soon to give hers up.”

“Houses fall, lines end.” He glances at the Imp, his mentor, who is caught between shock and anger.

“Not the House Baratheon, not after what has been done for it.”

“What you’ve done for it.” Gendry points out.

“And the Queen.” Tyrion rages. “She needs a Baratheon in her ranks, people follow her for you, King Robert’s son. Fuck the Stark name-”

Arya would have run him through with her fork, or gone at him with her claws, before. But she’s _still_ staring. Gendry takes her chin carefully, in case she spooks and lashes out.

“Then can I be Baratheon, and she be Stark? Lord Baratheon and Lady Stark of Winterfell.”

Tyrion sort of chuckles, but he’s still angry. “Gods, I should have known. We’ve had history as our guide – a union between your houses means danger, but it’s not you this time, you’re stubborn and you’ll outlast us.” He sighs. “Queen Daenerys will not be happy, she wants the Stark name dissolved.”

Gendry doesn’t care. “We’ll send North, we’ll find her brothers. They’ll be Lords of Winterfell, if they want, and Arya can be what she wants.” Gendry says with some resolution. “Will you marry me?”

She puckers her lips and he wonders if he’ll get another kiss, buts it’s in puzzle this time, like she’s confused.

“Will you marry _me_?” Ever in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

* * *

Gendry is kind. Too kind, perhaps, as he clothes her in his own tunic, britches and furs, and gives her back the blade she’d sent with the envoy’s hand.

She spins the dagger in her fingers, watching the clean silver shine, then presses the thin flat side against Gendry’s neck, sharp under his jaw. He stills in the midst of clasping a cloak around her shoulders (the fourth or fifth time he’s done so today, they needn’t have a ceremony really – he’s told her he’ll marry her and given her his cloak, they need only a heart tree), blue eyes watching her carefully.

“You should know your enemies.” She teaches, removing the blade after a moment.

He scoffs. “Didn’t your own people send you to me?”

“Rodrik isn’t my enemy.” He isn’t. He’s her rational side; they both consider their moves with utmost care, but Rodrik makes his with no spite or vengeance, only clarity of forethought. “He’s my loyal steward. Yours now, I suppose.”

“Ours.” Gendry says, taking her blade hand and kissing her clenched fist. She starts, confused by his insistence on showing his attachment to her.

Tyrion is at the door, tutting. “You’ve armed her?”

“Arya isn’t my enemy.” Gendry replies, dropping her hand and grinning at the Imp. “She’s almost my wife.”

“Boy, your wife is your biggest enemy. She will always beat you.”

They both look at her, jovial, but she is not accustomed to the title _wife_ and she only stands stiff, waiting for their jape to be done. Their chuckles die out and Tyrion gestures out into the snow.

“Winterfell awaits.”

Arya isn’t sure who he addresses. Winterfell waits for both Gendry and herself, only for one with open arms. She knew there had been discontent – they had only a little food, and it was always cold. But it would be so no matter who sat in the house seat, and it just happened to be her and she had tried her best. She wonders how well received she will be.

They go out and all of the soldiers are silent as they watch their commander help her into her saddle. They ride up as a party; Gendry, Tyrion and a group of the Ser’s best men. Arya leads, but takes no great pleasure in it as she sees the guards – who used to be _her_ guards – arming the walls, arrows notched and swords ready. She wonders if they knew Rodrik’s plot.

Rodrik is waiting in the courtyard with most of the staff, arms outstretched to receive his new Lord. Gendry swings down and clasps his hand.

“We are all glad to receive you as our Lady’s husband.”

“We are not married yet.” Gendry reminds him and Rodrik’s look goes to worry.

“But you will, won’t you?”

“Certainly.” Gendry turns his blue eyes on Arya and she slips off her horse.

She has not the skill for keeping her tongue, she fights the urge to scream and shout. They call her Lady, but there is no power in the title. She steps past the men, entering the hall.

She just catches the last of their conversation.

“When would you wish to be married?”

“Tomorrow.” Gendry says, and his word is good. His first order as Lord of Winterfell.

Gendry is generous. He carts up all the food his soldiers have brought and he invites the castle workers and the farmers left living in Winter Town to dine.

Arya can hear them from her rooms. There is music and laughter. She does not attend, though it is technically her engagement feast too. She sits in her room, filling her hands and time with footwork and sword training, polishing her armour (she convinces herself she will use it again), and dreaming of years past. Her mother would say _I told you so_. She was going to marry a knight and a lord after all.

She considers going down to the crypts. She feels like the cold and the dark would comfort her somehow, like it’ll whisper _don’t worry_. But she doesn’t because someone might see her and make her go sit by the strange Southron man who is to marry her.

Maids filter in and out. One brings food and drink, another a large bundle which will be her wedding clothes. She eats her fill, but doesn’t touch the bundle. She doesn’t care to see.

For the second night, she does not sleep.

Gendry is considerate. They’ll marry in the Godswood, following her northern customs. He wants to appeal to her people, and her perhaps as well.

Tyrion comes to tell her in the morning, cheerier than he had been last night. He finds her at her open window, nose red and fingers white from the cold.

“Another minute,” He says, standing on a chair to close the window. “And you really will be a woman of ice.”

“Gendry said he wanted to marry today.” She says, turning to stare down the wedding bundle. “Has everything been arranged?”

“Ser Rodrik has it all dealt with. He worked very fast indeed.”

“Or had everything prepared.”

A few maids come in with bathwater and Tyrion leaves. The women scrub her cold skin and wash her stringy hair. They’re the ones who open the wedding bundle, giggling and stroking the fabric of the robes and cloak within.

There’s a gown for her, something silver and furred, which must have been worked on for months. The maids say Rodrik had it ordered after receiving the letter, supposedly expecting a marriage from this deal. Arya shrugs into it and lets the maids lace her in tight. It’s got a carved metal belt and gilded shoulder cuffs, and she can pretend it’s a little like battle armour.

They pin her hair in some fashion and call for her crown. A _crown_ for the girl who isn’t even sure if she’s still Lady.

She doesn’t cry, she isn’t like that, but when they bring her a wreath of blue winter roses cut from Sansa’s precious bush in the glass gardens, Arya _shrieks._ She hates it all, the softness and the beauty for a marriage of political pieces.

Another woman, the maids would have comforted, claimed these were pre-wedding jitters. But Arya has armour in her wardrobe and swords above her bed. They leave her be.

Arya puts her hand up and wraps her fingers around the thorny stalks that make her crown. She has not the strength the ruin it, the known symbol of Lyanna Stark, and her own symbol of Sansa, who would have cooed all over this wedding. She clutches it a moment, the thorns cutting deep in her fingers and wetting them red.

“Arya.” Rodrik is there to walk with her. He will take her to her husband. He extends a hand, perhaps an apology for his actions (and she supposes she should apologise for her own), and she gives him hers. The blood is sticky and hot between them and he cringes.

The castle is alive, cooks rushing with dishes, stable boys playing with sticks. She gets a few stares, as she should expect, but mostly they’re too preoccupied with the wedding to care about the bride.

They go out to the Godswood, where as many soldiers as could fit have been crammed into the walled space, Southron men standing amongst the grimacing faces of the Weirwood trees. The men are stoic and look on her with some animosity; the trees watch weeping. Gendry is standing by the pond with his maester and the Imp, the great heart tree shaking behind them in the winter wind.

Gendry is handsome. It is undeniable that she has been gifted a true man – broad and strong with a defined jaw and dark hair. A Baratheon through and through, hard in every aspect of his look, excepting his blue eyes, which are startlingly happy.

He removes her maiden’s cloak and sweeps his dark one, baring a golden stag, onto her shoulders.

“I love you, Arya, and you will reign beside me as Lady Stark of Winterfell.”

“And you will reign as Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Winterfell.” She says, helping with the clasps.

Gendry kisses her.

“And I will find your brothers.” He whispers against her still lips. When he takes her hand, she’s sorry for the blood, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Though it is still early, Gendry calls for the feast, and they eat and eat and eat. There are boiled vegetables, pickled pheasants with chestnuts, duck sausage with root mash, two kinds of stew and three kinds of pie. Sweet fruits and rich desserts, tastes she’s never imagined from places she’s never heard of. The queen bestowed quite a bounty on her conquering knight.

Arya is startled at the provisions and the luxury. She is shocked when men take twice their share and leave scraps on their dishes. She has not seen food so plenty since before Robb left. After that they had nothing. It causes some unease in her, she wants to tell them all to smarten up, as she had once told her brothers, but she keeps her tongue and acts the icy lady she’s known to be.

Gendry must not sense this. He ladens her plate with every kind of meat and sweet there is at the Lord’s table, and tries to feed her from his own spoon. His large warm hand rests on her back, a weight that keeps her from fleeing the party. She does not dislike it per say, but it does not instill the peace of mind he means. Instead his warmth runs into her very veins and makes her feel ever more flighty, like she can’t sit there another minute without doing something.

He ought not touch her so in public.

He does not try to convince her to dance. He does not try to get her to walk the room with him. He does not introduce anyone to her. But from his hearty smile and bright cheery blue eyes, he looks as though he wants to on more than one occasion. She glares and puts an end to every endeavouring look.

Eventually, when the men in their cups are falling out their seats and the dancing has dwindled to only a few maids with their knights, Gendry stands to greet some of his company and his attention is no longer entirely on Arya. It’s then that his miniature shadow turns on her.

“Lady Arya.” He offers her his hand and she glares at him too. He only laughs. “I thought you might like to get away from the noise.”

“Oh.” She says simply and accepts.

She is short enough that their joined hands fall comfortably and he does not need to exert himself as he leads them from the hall. His waddle is exaggerated when he walks quickly, as he does now, but he slows as the sound of fiddle and flute dim.

“I must congratulate you on your wedding, Lady Stark.” He does not say her name begrudgingly. More like in awe (as many are, she has retained her house).

“And I must congratulate you, and Ser Gendry, on accomplishing it.”

“It was no easy feat, my Lady.”

“But your Ser was persistent. I _wanted_ him to fight, so I might put a blade in him myself.”

“Is it not stubbornness?”

“A stubborn person will call it persistence.” She barks a laugh, thin lips forming a reluctant smile. “We were both persistent, we both wanted Winterfell, though by different means.”

“He wanted Winterfell, yes.” Tyrion admits, his smile secretive. “As any man, high or low born, might. But he wanted you as well, whatever you were – and he heard quite a lot of talk. That you were carved of ice, that you had the head of a wolf-“ Arya cringes at the thought of her brother. “But he wanted you. He had his mind made up to love you the moment Daenerys announced your fate.”

“Then he _is_ stubborn – and a fool.” She spits. Her _husband_ is officially an aggravation, and they are not a day married.

Tyrion shrugs. “He means well. Would you prefer if he had come with the intention to beat you nightly and take Winterfell for his own?”

“At least then I would understand him.”

“I did think it a little odd, he was so keen to love you-”

“He did not grow up the Lord’s way.” Arya interjects. “He always had a choice. Did you? Did I?”

“Even so. I laughed him off, convinced he would hate you by the time we got to your doors, cold and tired and ready to turn tail. But you’re some source of intrigue to him – Anguy can contest to this.” Tyrion tuts. “As the archer had not met you, Gendry related every one of your virtues to him. I think they did not get any sleep last night.”

Neither did she.

“Virtues.” She puts her hand up to her lips and shakes her head. “My husband is kind, at least.”

“I must ask, my lady, what did you expect?”

“I tried not to think about it.” She says, surprisingly honest.

“Well, I hope that you will not hate him.”

“I don’t think I can, what with his promise to find my brothers and his concessions, which you think will make the very Queen angry. I will not hate him, I only find him odd, for he says he loves me, and no one has before.”

Tyrion’s brow crinkles, but he does not address the last statement. “Just be sure to have many children, and name at least one of them Dany.”

Then Tyrion stops and she finds herself at the Lord’s door, Gendry’s rooms. She turns to the Imp, surprised.

“We’ve done this wedding all out of order, my Lady.” He jests. “You had your first fight, then there was the bedding ceremony, and then Gendry gave you his cloak. Truly, it’s a miracle we got a wedding out of this after all.”

He holds his stomach as he laughs and smiles.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.” She says, and she really means the words.

“Go, be ready. Gendry will come as soon as he realises you’ve disappeared.” He turns and waddles off down the corridor, humming to himself.

Arya slips into the room and finds no maids – thankfully – and quickly removes her gown by cutting the tight strapping down the back. Then she goes to the wine on the sideboard. Her mother was dead by the time she was a women, but she imagines that being drunk will lessen the pain some.

* * *

After a while of talking with Anguy and Lem, Gendry realises that Tyrion has lead Arya out. He cannot express how thankful he is – a bedding ceremony is not to his tastes. Every soldier in attendance has had an eyeful of her already, and some of them make crude jest that they would like to again.

His close company gives him their best in lewd comments and ribald suggestions. He offers to stick them with his blade just as he’s leaving and Tom makes a jape of it – _your wife will like it better_ – making him laugh all the way to his chambers.

It’s a nervous laugh.

It stops when he reaches his door as he runs a hand down the worn wood.

He worries for a moment how uncomfortable this must be for her. This was her father’s bed. How often as a child had she curled up at the foot of it with her brothers and sisters? Then again, she is a lady, and he isn’t certain if ladies do that sort of thing.

Gendry puts pressure on the door and it swings open for him. He steps in quick and latches it, not interested in any intruders, now. He works on the buttons of his vest, desperate to look at upon his new wife – gods, she’s all he’s thought about, he wants her fire and her burn (he knows it’s there, he tasted it yesterday) – but wanting to put her at ease. He is perhaps _too_ ready, already straining his britches.

He’d wanted her with him last night, his first night as Lord, only to sit with him and make him easy in this strange new place (it’s a wonder she has that effect on him, considering her sharp edge). He’d wanted to show her off, before recalling with a sickness her recent treatment, and then he’d wanted to go to her, but couldn’t be certain he’d be received well.

Gendry can’t read her like he can an opponent on a battlefield; he doesn’t know when she’ll strike, when she’ll smile. As much as he feels affection for her, and shows it, she doesn’t appear to always receive it well. It will be give and take, he knows, but he’s determined to have her feel an inkling of what he feels before they’re in the grave.

Winter Queen be damned, he _knows_ she feels.

Arya is laid out on the bed, slowly draining a glass of wine. He’s seen her naked, he should not be so startled by her form or her crystal skin. He is still undressing, and he stops in his steps to stare at her small curves and tight muscles.

She doesn’t look at him as she sets the glass aside and settles into the pillows, her knees up and pressed together, her arms limp at her side.

Gendry hurries with his tunic and britches, understanding the invitation. His cock is red and ready, and he pushes the moisture around on the head to ease his entrance. He crawls on with her and comes up between her legs, pushing them aside with only a little resistance from the lady.

“There will be some pain.” He states awkwardly, but she must know.

She sort of waves him on with a limp wrist flop, lips tight together and grey eyes on the ceiling.

Arya does not look away as he looms above her, but she does not extend any loving greetings neither, and when he pushes into her he prefers to kiss her neck instead of her face. She looks hard as stone.

She doesn’t cry or call out when Gendry breaks her maidenhead, though they both feel the sharp pull, she doesn’t make a sound. He huffs and puffs and feels clumsy and out of form as he works into a pace, but once he’s established himself he kisses her collar and neck more, rolling and snapping his hips. Her body is all muscle and sinew and bone and she doesn’t have much to hold onto in the way of feminine roundness, so he wraps his arms around her and presses his sweaty body against hers, making them both slip together.

He hates himself for how quickly his pleasure escalates, but it can’t be undone. He promises he will outlast her next time (the thought, _next time_ , inspires further arousal in him, if that is even possible at this point).

Gendry pulls out just as he comes, his seed spilling on the linen towel she’s lain on the furs for the proof of her maiden’s blood. He grits his teeth in shame when he realises through the haze what he’s done.

He grinds out her name and curls over so his head rests on the smooth plane of her stomach, his sweat slick on her skin. Arya shifts beneath him and he thinks she means to escape him, but she only places a tentative hand in his hair. He takes it and kisses the palm fierce until his breathless state catches up with him and he gulps in air. He keeps her hand clutched against his flushed cheek, the cool of her touch chilling him.

When he no longer spasms and is capable of standing, he hurries off of her and goes to the sideboard, where a bowl of water and a cloth sit. He brings it to her, intending to clean her of her maiden’s blood, but she steals it from him in a sudden burst of movement, sitting up and awkwardly cleaning herself. Gendry clenches his fist to keep from helping her. There is an innate feeling that tells him she’d like to do this on her own.

He takes it back pink and quickly cleans himself too.

“Will Daenerys be content when I am with child? Then will she leave me be?”

Gendry isn’t sure. He doesn’t reply as he takes the cloth and bowl back to the sideboard.

“Could I be with child now?” Arya asks, certainly eager to get it over with.

He comes back to the bedside, fumbling with his hands and suddenly very aware of his nakedness. He kneels and takes her hand, kissing it and drawing her gaze to him.

“It is unlikely. I have the curse of a bastard, milady.” He struggles with what to say. “I have grown accustomed to spilling outside… to ensure that I do not in turn father a bastard. I-I did not…”

“So we will have to do it again.” She states, slowly dropping back into her original position, calm against the furs, knees up. “Go on then.”

“Now?” He asks, startled. “Doesn’t it hurt? I heard that a woman hurts.”

Arya blinks and smiles, a sharp, crisp, genuine smile that roots him to the spot. “I’ve been hurt, ser. By blades and arrows and words. Your prick is nothing.”

She leans back and waits, unaware that he is limp and still recovering. He bites his lip and takes himself in his hand, but it is embarrassing and when he tugs he finds no pleasure.

He stands and crawls onto the bed with her. She’s got her eyes on the ceiling again, like she can’t bear to look, and he’s not angry, only ashamed. How could his own wife not bear this moment? This moment when they share their bodies in joyous union?

He puts his hand between her legs, only to find out if she’s at the least bit aroused, but he finds that he likes her silkiness, and he strokes her softly. She squirms, confused.

“Ser?” She gasps, but instead of answering he silences her, leaning over her to kiss her mouth. He _will_ make her feel some sort of pleasure. She is still and stiff under his ministrations.

“You kissed me. Yesterday.” He lifts himself enough to whisper against her lips. “Was there no pleasure in that?”

She dips her head so that her lips are further from his, knocking noses and foreheads inadvertently. “I meant to taste your lies. I thought that you might fight to be away from me when you realised who you were attaching yourself to.”

He strokes her again and she appears uncomfortable. “Is there no pleasure here?”

She pulls a tight smile. “Why? I did not expect to find pleasure in my husband. Don’t trouble yourself. Take yours and be done with it.”

“It’s supposed to go both ways.” He huffs.

Gendry glances down at his hand as he strokes her again and there’s a little wetness. His efforts are not in vain. She is responding without realising. Arya is again staring at the ceiling, neck fully exposed to him, so he kisses her there and revels in the gasp that comes forth.

He kisses down the curve and across her chest to her breast, rolling her nipple with his tongue. She’s fidgeting and biting her lip. He continues to stroke while his free hand rubs under her breasts and moves down to hold her bony hip. His lips follow, kissing each rib and circling her navel.

He comes away up on his knees and she’s moaning, red from the effort of restraining herself. He grins and traces the back of her leg from her ass to her knee with one finger, then bites softly the skin under her knee.

“Ser!” She cries, eyes shut tight. “Husband!”

“Gendry.” He replies at her uncertainty.

Arya grasps the furs beneath her as he presses a finger within her. To make her feel more, he puts his lips there too, and receives a clap on the ears as she shuts her legs on him. He grins against her curls and glances up at her, thoroughly enjoying the red flush that graces the skin from her forehead to breasts.

“Is there anything wrong, milady?” He asks coyly.

She groans and arches her back, chest rising up from the furs, a hand racing down to touch his cheek, feather light.

“It aches.”

Gendry hums as he kisses her sweetness again. “Good.”

Arya pants through his ministrations, one hand curled in his hair and the other thrown over her head. Her red face, straining lips and heaving chest make him ready again in an instant (such an arousing image that he’ll remember at the worst of moments, half way through trade meetings or while training his company).

“Gendry-” She hisses after a while, pulling on his hair now. He leaves her curls reluctantly, sweeping wet kisses up her chest to her neck.

“Yes, milady?”

She’s flushed like the pomegranates the Queen had sent from across the Narrow Sea. Her lips work to make words and he thinks he knows what she’s asking.

“Now, milady?”

“Yes.”

He hovers above her, every part of him just barely brushing her sparking skin. With one hand he brushes her hair from her forehead, with the other he levels his cock with her, pressing in smoothly. She’s achingly close and he wants to kiss her, but it’ll be her that makes the jump.

When he’s hilt deep and gasping at the feeling of her satisfying (glorifying) warmth, Arya jerks up, her arms swooping around his shoulders, crushing his lips firmly against hers.

It’s like when she kissed him in the tent, _to taste his lies_ , a fight for dominance, only now there is the distraction of ulterior pleasure. She stops to groan out his name (and gods, it makes him grin for days), giving him ample chance to lavish her breasts. Arya doesn’t stop him, scratching her claws down his neck and back as she rocks her hips with his.

Her breath breaks and she murmurs his name over and over again, her muscles going tight around him as she reaches her pleasure. Gendry bites her shoulder lightly around a smile, absolutely enthralled at the sight of the icy lady so undone. He groans out his release a moment later. Arya cradles him with her legs, keeping him firmly inside of her, as if he might leave her. He nuzzles her lips and chin and nose to assure her.

She preens blushingly at the touch and he can feel her cheeks pulling into a smile.

As his breathing evens, he draws out. He drops his arms away from her and throws himself down beside her, allowing her the chance for an escape, but she surprises him by dragging up the furs and rolling on her side to face him. Her face and chest are still flushed red as she tries to find words.

He kisses her wrist, mind-numbingly happy and still a little dazed. He traces her other arm to find her hand and it’s clasped over her stomach.

“If there’s a child-” She begins worriedly.

“If there’s a child, milady, or if there isn’t, don’t worry yourself.” She’s malleable after their love making and when he puts his arms around her she folds against him like Valyrian steel. She glimmers as she waits for him to continue, grey eyes wide. “Was this not a pleasure? Would it be terrible to repeat the process?”

She glowers at him as he smiles. He sighs and closes his eyes, pleasantly sated and feeling the slow pulls of sleep.

“I’m still going to fight.” She carries on.

_Whatever she wants_ , Gendry thinks, smoothing the skin on her hip with calloused fingers. _I’ll give her. Gods, I’ll give her the world._

“If I get a round belly, I’m still going to fight. You can’t keep me from defending my people, from protecting Winterfell.”

He snaps his eyes open, fingers tensing and teeth gritting. He doesn’t like the image he has of her, round with his child and blade swinging.

“Your claim is sound. The Queen has promised it. You will not have any reason to defend it.”

“It will not be my claim I defend.” She says, her thin lips tightening. “The North will not accept you so readily.”

“Milady will fight for me.” Gendry softens, stroking her skin. She presses into his touch, blushing again. “I’ll make you the finest armour, just so long as you promise not to go fighting me. I don’t think I’d stand a chance – Tyrion says you’ll always beat me.”

“We’ve had our fight.” She murmurs, lashes fluttering sleepily over grey eyes. “Now we fight together, Lord Gendry Baratheon.”

It rolls off her tongue so pleasantly, and the pain of these last days and months has all been worth it.

“Lady Arya Stark.” He murmurs in reply. He hopes that she’s well pleased.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m an Arya-Gendry hopeful, but I won’t say it too many times in case it inspires George RR Martin to kill one of them next.  
> I’ve also always liked the idea of an Arya-Tyrion alliance, because I feel that their characters would make for some interesting conversations and decisions, and they never really interacted in the books or show.  
> So here I’ve indulged both of my interests.
> 
> I tried to throw in other characters I like (Daenerys, Anguy, Hot Pie – but I forgot Tyrion’s trusty Bronn! Sorry Bronn), though I was a little restricted on who could be mentioned.  
> Sorry for making Daenerys the baddie. I do like her, and I think that she and Arya would make a kick ass team, but in a situation such as this, I think Arya would be bitter and resentful, and less likely to want for an alliance.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> (also posted on FanFiction Net under the same username)  
> Cheers, Bee


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